"He still hasn't kissed you? Nothing?"

"Nada. It's like he's never heard of kissing. And I'm afraid to touch him. I can't tell if it would be welcome."

"How often does he come over?"

"Once a week. For the past two months."

"And he calls you every other day?"

"Yup."

"And he's not gay?"

"Nope."

Gwen stirred her whipped cream dispiritedly with a flat wooden stick. She seemed to be wearying of the Nash subject. "What do you even like about this guy?"

Kelly looked down at her coffee. "He has interesting observations. He doesn't care about unimportant things."

"Like showering and shaving?"

She lifted her chin. "He stands a little apart from the world. I like that."

"He seems a little broken, in my opinion."

"We're all a little broken."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Lucky for him you're drawn to the hopeless ones. You and your bleeding heart."

Kelly knew she had some radical ideas concerning heaven. "I've heard that in heaven, my joy will be complete. And my joy will be incomplete unless everyone comes with me," she told her priest. This was during confession, when she was supposed to be focusing on her own sins. She half-expected the priest to say: "Well, now that you mention it, little lady, you do have a point there." He didn't. But neither did he protest.

It was Gwen who protested. "Even the bad guys get to go-the killers and the rapists?"

Kelly stood her ground.

"Even the people who don't, you know, believe in Jesus?" Gwen was not particularly religious, and her mouth always got a bit gummy when saying the word Jesus out loud.

"If faith is a gift, how can you punish those who don't have it?"

Gwen paused. "What good is heaven if everyone gets to go? What justice is there in that?"

"Mercy is greater than justice," Kelly said. She believed it with all her heart.

On Sunday morning she went to church. She'd just learned the Spanish word for mercy and thought it was beautiful, found herself repeating it under her breath as she drove. Misericordia, misericordia. During the Gospel reading, the priest said, "May all who have ears hear," to which Kelly quickly prayed, "Give everybody ears." At the end of Ma.s.s it was announced that there would be a prayer vigil at five o'clock to end abortion. Kelly always wondered why they didn't have prayer vigils to end unwanted pregnancy, and had once put this idea in what she thought was a suggestion box but turned out to be a donation box for the world's poor. She stayed late, alone in the empty pews, and prayed. She felt Jesus close, as she often did-invisible but close. This was her life: always sensing him and missing him at the same time.

She wanted to pray about Nash, who indeed seemed to keep separate from the world, and she was beginning to fear that she was part of the world he kept separate from. But she tried to be careful never to tell G.o.d what to do. Instead of praying for a Cubs victory, for instance, she simply said: "May your holy will be done." Then later, she chastised herself: Well, maybe you should have been a little more specific.

"Make my heart your heaven," she said. She lowered her head. "I give you my life." She wished she had something better to give; she knew she was no model of blind obedience. "I offer you the lives of all the saints," she said. She liked the way the communion of saints allowed you to share in the good works of others. "I offer you all the love of all time. Give me everything you want me to have, even if there's suffering involved."

She had to admit, she had not yet learned the art of loving suffering. She realized she should; she knew suffering was proof of love. "Do you know that the saints in heaven would envy you?" she'd once read in a mystic's diary she found in her grandmother's closet. "Their time of sacrifice is over." She thought she understood what this meant. Now, while she had free will, was her chance to show G.o.d she loved him more than earthly things. Nevertheless, she found herself avoiding sacrifice and seeking her own pleasure. She tried to override this tendency-the tendency toward self-satisfaction, when she could be trying to charm G.o.d-but it was difficult. Still, she knew G.o.d understood this difficulty. G.o.d understood everything.

"Hey, you," Nash said, tapping her screen. It was Sat.u.r.day night, and the setting sun had turned the sky into a Cheryl Wheeler lyric: drop jaw red, Maxfield Parrish blue. Three weeks had gone by since she'd last seen him.

"Hi," she said brightly. "Where've you been?"

"No questions," he said. "I want to take you somewhere. Come with me."

Whole Foods was locked up for the night, but he had a key. While Nash led, she followed behind with her hands on his shoulders. Even in the dark, she knew what they were pa.s.sing: Straight ahead was the table with gingerbread loaves and tangerine cookies; to the left were the shelves with sun-dried tomato pesto and imported cornichons; to the right were the goat cheese and salad greens.

When they reached the back of the store, he sat down on the mottled linoleum. "There's something I've wanted to tell you," he said. His hands moved restlessly in his lap. As soon as she sat down beside him, he stood up. "It's hard to explain," he said. In the light from the rows of refrigerated milk, his face looked almost pellucid.

"I went to my father's grave. I hadn't been there for a long time," he said. "I was lying on the ground, right above where he's buried, when I noticed this stone angel on top of a monument, way up high. She was holding a horn in one hand, and her other hand was open at her side. And she's staring at the sky, like she's listening for something, or waiting for something." He'd been pacing, but now he stopped. "Do you know what I mean? Like she's listening for a music she has yet to hear."

"Maybe G.o.d-"

"No!" he said. "This has nothing to do with G.o.d. What I'm trying to say here doesn't have anything to do with G.o.d!"

She didn't know what to say. He'd never raised his voice to her before.

"It has to do with me," he said.

Her eyes were fixed on the rows of milk. "I just thought-"

"Forget it," he said. "Forget I ever said anything." In his face she saw a hint of something else, and she wondered what it was she was supposed to forget. He turned and headed for the exit. "Let's get out of here."

Kelly's disappointment emboldened her. "You always come close and then run away," she said to his back, still sitting Indian-style on the floor. "Why is that?" Nash kept walking. "Why'd you even bring me here?" He was out of sight now, but she could hear the sound of metal on metal, and for a second it crossed her mind that he could lock her in for the night. But he wouldn't do that. Would he?

"Nash!" she said, addressing the idea of Nash, his wraith. "What is it you want from me?"

When she got up, she would discover that the door was unlocked, but Nash was long gone. She figured she had her answer.

So it was over. It was over before it began, which made it even harder to take. Kelly was surprised by how much it affected her. She couldn't concentrate at work; she avoided Gwen; she kept checking her messages for the apology that never came. She didn't like to second-guess G.o.d, but considering how things had turned out, she couldn't help wondering what the point had been of meeting Nash in the first place.

It had been raining for days. Pouring. Fortunately, Kelly had recently had the roof reshingled, or there would have been a swamp in her living room. She brewed a pot of chamomile tea and pretended to ignore the banging sound of the loose drainpipe. Until she couldn't pretend any longer. She grabbed her coat and switched on the outside lights, not sure what her plan was but figuring she ought to do something. As soon as she stepped outside, she saw him. He was standing in the middle of her front lawn, in the rain.

"Nash," she said. She was quiet inside, almost frightened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking," he said. "I guess you might call it praying." His voice sounded different, and she noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Why don't you come inside?" she said. "You can pray in here."

His eyes tightened. "I was just wondering-praying," he said again, but he'd given the word a certain meanness, "how a benevolent G.o.d can allow so much suffering." He made a sweeping gesture on the word suffering, and she wondered if he was maybe drunk. "It's a simple question, don't you think? And I'm going to stand right here till I get an answer."

Pixel whimpered at her feet, wanting to run to him. "We don't always get answers our way, in our time," she said. "It doesn't work like that."

"It does tonight." He gave her a look that suggested he was ready to stand on her lawn for the rest of his life, and for a moment she imagined him there, patches of snow resting on his shoulders like a statue's, dandelions sprouting through his toes in the spring.

"G.o.d suffers the most," she said. "He only keeps himself hidden out of respect for our free will."

"Bull-s.h.i.t!" Nash said, rainwater spraying from his lips. "You want a less-bulls.h.i.t revolution? That's ironic. You are the queen of bulls.h.i.t. And you know what else? Not only is it bulls.h.i.t, it's the most milquetoasty, goody-goody, meaningless bulls.h.i.t I've ever heard. Sometimes I'm amazed that you can say the things you do with a straight face."

Kelly was stunned. To her, they'd always felt like a team, even when they disagreed, like those celebrity couples who argue politics on TV. It had never occurred to her that he was secretly repulsed. A flurry of comebacks flashed through her mind: Why don't you stay home then? Why keep coming here if I'm so disgusting? But the sting of his words left her speechless. She went back inside, slamming the door behind her as hard as she could. In her bedroom, she stood to one side of the window so he couldn't see her watching him. She knew she wanted him to come in after her. She also knew he never would.

By the time she went back outside, he was kneeling in the mud. He didn't look up when she said his name, didn't acknowledge her at all. She got down beside him.

"Nash," she said.

When he lifted his face, it was laced with sorrow. "Why?" he said. His hands were fists in the gra.s.s. "Why why why why why why why?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't have all the answers. Sometimes I just like to act as if I do."

He pulled an amber-colored bottle from his pocket. "Know what these are?" he said, rattling it. "These are the antidepressants I've been taking for the last, oh, ten years. They're supposed to dampen my desire to kill myself. And guess what? They also dampen everything else, if you know what I mean. Make it pretty much impossible." He met her eyes. "Still feel like hanging around?" He stuck the bottle back in his pocket. "Allow me to answer for you."

"Come on, let's go inside."

"No," he said. "Your G.o.d has some explaining to do. I've waited long enough. I'm tired of waiting."

She didn't want to argue with him. She felt rather tired herself. Tired of the waiting, and the misunderstanding; tired for what's lost, and what's never held in the first place. Tired for all the music that slips by unheard. She put her fingers beneath his chin.

Across the street, the neighbors turned out their light, and a garage door slowly hummed to a close. In the end, there was no answer. There was no thunder, there was no lightning from the sky. There was just a woman, kneeling in her yard in the rain, and a man, lifting his face, waiting to be kissed.

WE'VE GOT A GREAT FUTURE BEHIND US

"Allow me to declare this a disaster in advance." Zeb is standing in the entrance to the Oak Bar at the Hermitage Hotel, holding a guitar case and a carry-on. I rise from my chair, abandoning a laptop, a highball, and the plans I've been making to cover the following contingencies: Zeb misses his flight, Zeb shows up with a showgirl, Zeb shows up drunk, Zeb shows up with a drunk showgirl, Zeb sends a man dressed as a singing gorilla to take his place. His glance has a sideways cast, and I know he's looking for Debra-Lynn.

"She's already up in the room," I say. "I thought it might be best if you and I had ourselves a c.o.c.ktail first."

"I'm telling you, Walt, this whole idea is a mistake," he says. "She will sabotage any project she's a.s.sociated with. Her only joy is the misery of others. The woman has a tabloid heart."

I pull out a chair, and he sits. "That att.i.tude isn't going to make things any easier," I say.

"Easier? Nothing in heaven, h.e.l.l, or anywhere in between is going to make this any easier," he says, picking up the c.o.c.ktail menu. He takes out his gla.s.ses, and I can't help but wonder how much of my predicament shows on my face. I haven't had a hit song since 1998, and I'm on the most-wanted list of seven different collection agents, not to mention my possibly mob-affiliated landlord. But that's not the best part, the new part.

"I wasn't going to tell you this," I say.

"You always say that whenever you're about to tell me something anyway."

"Catherine's pregnant."

Zeb whumps the table. "Well, what do you know. How did that happen?"

"So her tapped-out credit cards and my puny honorariums aren't going to cut it anymore."

"Honorariums?" he says. "You get those?" While I'm trying to get him to pay attention, his only concern is flagging down the waitress. Before he and Deb got hitched, whenever we finished a set, his first words were always the same: "Where is the booze and where are the women?"

I take his hand and look him in the eye. "We're on a mission here," I say. "A very important mission."

Back when I used to do the festival circuit with Zeb and Deb, as their opening act-back when everything they touched turned platinum-they promised they'd collaborate with me on a song. So now, even though they haven't spoken to each other in over two years, even though it's practically a violation of a restraining order for them to be in the same state, I'm calling in my chits, asking for the favor. Maybe it's insanity, but maybe it's my only hope.

Zeb gives up on the waitress and finishes my highball for me. "Did I ever tell you about the time she convinced herself I was cheating on her, and cut the crotch out of every pair of pants I owned?"

"Let's try to stay focused," I say. "We don't have time to wallow in the past."

"I have more fun there," he says. He slaps a pack of cigarettes on the table so they'll be ready when he needs them. "Perhaps we should discuss my fee," he says. We hadn't discussed his fee because I hadn't considered paying him a fee. Springing for a weekend at the toniest hotel in Nashville seemed fee enough.

"I'll be paying you in gin and tonics," I say, and finally catch the eye of Sally, a bare-armed brunette with a honeysuckle voice.

"Not even an honorarium?" he says. A slow smile spreads across his face. "My fee is that you name the kid after me."

I have no idea if he's serious. Zebulon got his name not from the Bible, nor from Zebulon Pike-who never actually reached the summit of Pikes Peak-but from a poker game. His mother, eight months pregnant, was standing at his father's elbow when his father lost a final hand to a pair of nines, held by a man named Zebulon Smith. This was the nadir of a long losing streak, during which the young couple had mortgaged nearly everything they owned. The victor, perhaps in a moment of pity, had agreed to let them off the hook on one condition: The unborn child would bear his name.

"You're joking," I say.

"I am serious as whiskers on a shark."

"Zeb, remember, the pregnancy's a secret," I say. "No one's supposed to know. And I'm having a lot of trouble with the whole marriage idea." When I first told Catherine I saw conventional life, the standard white-picket-fence thing-marriage-as a bit of a trap, she said: "Have you ever considered that the unmarried, unconventional life is also a trap?"

"Just name the kid after me, and I'll give this my best shot," Zeb says. "No-I will deliver."

In the old days, back when they were the barn-burning, show-stopping success story of the lower forty-eight, the mighty duo could whip off an award-winning song in their sleep. Zebulon and Debra-Lynn were the top of the heap. They'd played everywhere, from the Louisiana Hayride to the Grand Ole Opry herself. Their love songs, and their love story, were legendary; there wasn't a waitress in all of Nashville who hadn't heard of Zeb & Deb. High school sweethearts, separated by fate, reunited in a guitar shop on Nashville's Lower Broadway. For a while everything seemed perfect, like the sappy ending to a country love song. Marital bliss, material success, fame from bridge to bridge. Then came the kind of divorce you read about in gossip magazines, with a mean-spiritedness as outlandish as the love it had replaced. Recording-studio vendettas, pet custody battles, even an alleged poisoning attempt. It was payback for every corny love song they'd ever written. No: It was as if they were atoning for every hack lyricist since someone first rhymed moon and June. After breaking up their act, neither one had succeeded in bottling the lightning solo. Gradually they retreated from the public eye, and appeared to have quit writing altogether. Until now. I hoped.

In the elevator, Zeb stares at his boots.

"I realize you haven't seen each other in a while," I say.

"Buddy, I'm way ahead of you. I brought my airsick bag from the plane." He pulls a neat, square bag out of his back pocket, and I feel a bizarre surge of nausea.

"I'm telling you," he says. "If she pulls any of her funny business, I can't be held-"

"She won't. She won't, I promise. In fact, she told me she's sorry-for everything that happened. At the end."

"You're lying."

"Okay, I'm lying," I say. "But please-please. Let's just try to get through the next forty-eight hours as painlessly as we can."

"I don't think that's possible," he says. "I don't mind telling you, I think the entire cosmos is against us here."

When we get to the door to the room, we both just stand there. It took a t.i.tanic amount of wheedling to make this reunion happen, but now that the hour has arrived, I want to run. I force myself to give a single rap with my middle knuckle.